


Some Nights

by mangochi



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is much schmoopy semi-drunk sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Nights

The journey back to the apartment from the bar is bruising and uncoordinated, Jim's hand groping through McCoy's back pocket when it's not sneaking around to slide under the front of his shirt, and to be honest, McCoy isn't fighting him too hard because dammit it, a man's just gotta cut loose sometimes. He also suspects that the last blue drink Jim pushed into his hand has something to do with it.

"Jim," McCoy grunts, shifting his hands uncomfortably beneath him as Jim flops heavily against his back and flattens him against the apartment door. He drops his keycard and it clatters to the floor, where he tries hard to not move his feet and accidentally kick the thing in under the door. "Hold on-- wait, just let me--"

"Bones," Jim slurs happily against the back of his neck, grinding steadily against Leonard's ass. In any other situation, this would be perfectly fine, but suddenly McCoy's fueled with the image of the two of them unable to get to a bed in the next thirty seconds and he pushes backwards determinedly, trying to get enough leeway to bend over and fetch the key.

As it turns out, this is simultaneously his best and worst idea yet. Jim immediately wraps his arms around McCoy's waist, practically humping against his hip now, and McCoy barely stifles a drawn out groan when Jim's hand finds its way between his legs and squeezes. " _Jim_ , no, dammit." He hits his head against the doorknob as his fingers finally close around the keycard, and the burst of pain clears his mind enough for him to finally,  _finally_  get the door open.

"Bones, Bones, Bones," Jim's muttering now as they stumble clumsily into the dark apartment, McCoy kicking the door shut behind them. Jim's still plastered to his back like a sloshed octopus, pawing ineffectually at McCoy's clothes and mouthing wetly at the side of his neck. "Bones, please, come on, come  _on_ , let's do it already--"

"Calm down," McCoy huffs, then forgets how to breathe when Jim wrenches at the zipper of his pants and wriggles a hand inside. "Jesus, kid, have some patience--" Jim shoves at him again and they tumble, thankfully, onto the bed.

"Mmm," Jim says against McCoy's shoulder blades, his breath hot and wet through the fabric. He gives McCoy's cock a final stroke before pulling his hand out, leaving it trapped between McCoy's body and the sheets. "Turn over."

"You're an animal," McCoy tells him, but he heaves himself over and surrenders himself to Jim's overbright stare, raising his eyebrows in anticipation.

"I know," Jim says solemnly, his hands working awkwardly at the top three buttons of his shirt before he gives up and pulls the still half-buttoned thing over his head. It leaves his hair a mess, golden tufts sticking up every which way, and his expressions's sharpened into something raw and hungry. McCoy's reaching up before he can catch himself, cupping Jim's cheek and rubbing his thumb over the corner of his parted lips.

"Hi," he says, his voice hoarse, and there doesn't seem to be enough air between them. Jim catches his wrist, holds McCoy's hand still as he turns his head and sucks a finger into his mouth, long and wet and obscene. "Hey," Jim answers, his tongue pressing up against the underside of McCoy's finger as he speaks.

McCoy hears a low groan and swallows hard when he realizes it's coming from himself.

Jim releases his hand with an obscene pop, swiping his tongue absently across his lips as he slides farther up McCoy's body, rolling his hips slow and easy against the swell of McCoy's cock. 

"Love you, Bones," Jim breathes, his face tucked beneath McCoy's neck. McCoy takes a ragged breath, chokes back another groan as Jim's steady rocking grows more deliberate. "So,  _so_  fucking much. You have no idea, God, the things I want to do to you?" Jim finishes in a hopeful rush that makes McCoy snort and drape a forearm over his face in an attempt to stifle his laughter.

The sudden increase in his heart rate has nothing to do with it at all, he tells himself.

"Yeah, kid," McCoy says, feeling himself grow, impossibly, even harder at the look on Jim's face. "Have at it."

He feels Jim grin once, hard and fast, before his mouth is skating down the side of McCoy's neck in a series of quick, pointed kisses, some accompanied with a sloppy scrape of tongue and teeth. It's messy and Neanderthal and so Jim that McCoy just spreads his legs wider and groans out loud when Jim's hands shove under his shirt, scratching across his sides and stomach.

"Off," Jim mutters, tugging at the shirt. "Off, off, c'mon, you're wearing too many clothes."

"Grrnmph," McCoy agrees, feeling Jim's breath puff out over the slick skin he's just worked over. He moves his hands reluctantly from where they've been running up and down Jim's back and brings them to his waist, fumbling at the hem.

Jim sits back, kicking off his pants and underwear before dropping back on McCoy's legs as McCoy struggles to pull his shirt off. He gets it halfway over his face, but then his arms tangle in the fabric over his head and he can't get a grasp on the sleeve cuffs. 

"A little help?" he finally grits out, after a few seconds of writhing in frustration. He can barely make out Jim's silhouette through the stretched fabric, but he sees the little tilt to the left that Jim's head makes. The tilt is bad news. It means Jim's thinking about something, and whenever Jim's thinking during sex, it's nothing good and usually leaves McCoy in an extremely compromised position.

"Stop that," he says instantly. "Stop that face."

"You can't see me."

"I don't have to," McCoy snaps. "You're doing that stupid face, the one that always ends with me getting screwed over--"

"I'm  _thinking_."

"I know you are, so stop it right now," McCoy orders. "Now help me get this damn shirt--" Something warm and wet touches his skin, swipes lightly across his right nipple. McCoy jackknifes reflexively, but Jim's weight across his hips only causes his torso to arch off the bed in a clumsy flop. "Jim, what are you, what are you doing--"

McCoy's head hits the pillow and when Jim's tongue returns, chapped lips scraping, kissing, sucking, McCoy doesn't recognize the sound of his own voice.

"Feeling screwed over yet?" Jim mumbles, sliding over to lick up McCoy's sternum. "Or just screwed?"

McCoy barks out a breathless laugh that fizzles away into a groan when Jim's fingers slide up over his face, probing over the fabric of his shirt, and McCoy tilts his head up, mouths at Jim's fingers through the cotton. 

There's a sharp intake of breath from somewhere around his midriff, then the shirt is being tugged off McCoy's face, slipping off his arms and disappearing somewhere over the side of the bed.

McCoy blinks, feels cool air against the newly formed sweat on his face, and sees Jim staring up at him, eyes big and blue and hungry.

"Get up here," McCoy says, his throat dry, and grunts when Jim's weight settles on his chest instantly, Jim's hands wrapping around his wrists and pulling them up against the headboard.

"Hang on to this," Jim whispers, then proceeds to kiss the living hell out of McCoy. 

McCoy curls his fingers around the headboard awkwardly, then tightens his grip reflexively when Jim squeezes a hand down between them into McCoy's open pants, curling around McCoy's cock in a loose grasp.

"Jim," McCoy gasps, arching up into the pressure, then groans in frustration when Jim follows him, keeping up that agonizingly light touch. " _Dammit_ , stop that--"

"What, stop this?" Jim taps McCoy's cock once and McCoy sucks in an uneven breath, feeling his stomach flex and tighten uncertainly. He stares up at the ceiling, fingers clenched so tightly around the headboard that he's beginning to lose the feeling in them. But he's not going to  _beg_  for it, no, Jim can wait and tease all he goddamn wants--

"Jesus!" McCoy's head thumps back against the pillow, his heart still hammering in his chest from the sudden squeeze Jim gave his erection. He can feel Jim against his leg, hard and hot and damp, and he can't catch his breath, he's going to lose his mind and they haven't done a damn thing yet.

"Jim, I can't, you need to-- just-- shit." McCoy tilts his hips up helplessly and this time Jim grinds his hand down against him, not stroking, just pushing, and McCoy stills again with a little whine. His jeans are still clinging on stubbornly, hopelessly tangled around his legs and slipping off his ass, and the slight friction is enough to drive him to the edge of insanity. He spreads his knees as wide as they can get, no longer caring how this makes him look; judging by Jim's expression, it's less humiliating than one might think.

"Fuck me," McCoy says, more articulate than even he's expecting, and Jim's resulting groan and instinctive thrust against McCoy's hip is well worth losing the game.

"Not gonna-- not gonna make it," Jim pants out, slightly regretful as he covers McCoy with his body, sliding a foot up McCoy's calf and somehow,  _somehow_  managing to pull his pants all the way off with some inventive wriggling.

"You're a goddamn natural," McCoy informs him, dizzy and drunk on more than whiskey as Jim pushes their hips together just right and, yeah, there he is. There they are. God, he can't think straight anymore. 

Jim's cock slides against his, just a bit longer where McCoy's got more width, and his hands, hell, Jim's  _hands_ , hot fingers wrap around the both of them, jerking with a practiced motion that's barely hindered by the alcohol, and McCoy forgets how to breathe.

"Jim," he groans, the sound punched out of his body with every rough thrust of Jim against him. He wants to reach down, pull Jim closer by his thigh, his ass, but his hands are locked around the headboard, his arms shaking and his muscles burning, but Jim's palm is sliding against him, alternatively slick and dry- he hears little gasps against the side of his neck as Jim scrabbles to try and press them even closer together, like he's trying to crawl into McCoy's skin.

As if he isn't there already, wrapped so tightly around McCoy's heart that it's a wonder they're still two separate beings.

"Jim," McCoy says again, turning his head blindly. "Here--c'mere--"

Jim's mouth clashes against his, ungainly and messy, but hot and eager. They're barely kissing now, more like trading breaths and strained nonsense as Jim's hand squeezes suddenly, twisting his wrist up and digging his thumb into the head of McCoy's cock.

McCoy comes abruptly, shoved over the edge with an almost physical collision, and he shudders violently with a choked moan, biting down on Jim's lip involuntarily. Jim hisses, startled, his hips snapping down once, twice, and McCoy's distantly aware of Jim swearing quietly as his body tenses and wet heat spreads across his belly and chest.

Jim flops down uselessly on top of him, still twitching occasionally as he presses open-mouthed kisses to McCoy's chest, running his hands up McCoy's arms and pausing at his wrists. "You can let go," he says, his voice cracked and wrecked, and McCoy grunts wearily.

"Can't," he says loopily, and winces when Jim pries gently at his fingers, the muscles clenching and relaxing painfully as the circulation returns to them.

"Mmm," McCoy says, feeling Jim's mouth against his palms as he lowers his hands. "Sap."

"You love it," Jim informs him, ignoring the sticky mess as he plasters himself on top of McCoy again, slipping a leg between McCoy's as he bends his head again, lips parted and eyebrow cocked in brash challenge.

McCoy snorts softly, reaches up with tingling fingers to run his hand through Jim's sweat-damp hair and curl around the back of his head, pulling him down. "So what if I do?"

 


End file.
